Memories
by Host100
Summary: Wanda is forced to move town after disturbing events weigh her down, leaving her no other options. Each day is a struggle, coping with her mothers illness and her need of constant attention. In the process of creating a new life for herself, what she doesn't realize is that she is pushing everyone away. However, when she takes a risk with her neighbor Ian, what path will she take?
1. Chapter 1

Wanda POV

The world before me blurs before my eyes, merging all of my surroundings into one final and distant picture. The trees are a dark envious shade, probably identical to the colour my face currently is. I have never liked the colour- Green has always been the colour of envy and sickness. In my case, neither happens to be a pretty sight.

The jolting of the car brings a sickening feeling to my stomach, making me want to reel over and retch, although I manage to resist the urge to do so. I am grateful that I am able to restrain myself as for that could have been both embarrassing and disgusting and the smell could have only made things far worse and extremely quickly.

I have always suffered from car sickness, and it has never failed to bother me. Whenever the wheels hit an uneven edge in the road or when we went over a speed bump, it always granted me with an unwanted stomach churning feeling, mashing all of my body's contents together in one unstable mixture. The feeling of sickness is completely revolting altogether.

However, taking one look at my mother in the front seat, rail thin, cheekbones sharp and dangerously visible, her skin a sickeningly pale colour, I instantly stop feeling sorry for myself.

The difference between carsickness and an actual life threatening illness makes me shameful to compare the two. Again, it only makes the sickness worse. Even if referring to the topic was unsettling, it works like a charm and brings me to see the obvious more clearly.

My Mum will always be in more pain than me, no matter what. She was the one with Cancer, after all. Nothing else really matters.

Since I was five, I have watched my Mum fight that competitive battle, struggling to keep fit and healthy. When the illness had made its appearance, bringing her to sorrow, I had gradually come to see how much pain it dragged her through, each breath proving an obstacle that was agonisingly difficult to face.

I have and always do look out for her when times are rough and she can't manage. Both of us alike, I have lost some dignity in the process. I have lost the ability to think as clearly and have given up on the hope that one day, I will be granted the right to live a normal life without all the stress and difficulties blocking my way.

I had known that it was something foolish to dream about, but for some strange reason, I had found it hard to give up. Now, it seems like I am an empty version of a human, my head completely blank. Everything has been erased. I like it like that.

One of my other main priorities, besides looking after my mother, is keeping this family happy- That involves my brother, Freedom. Keeping him entertained whilst he is at the age of five is vital. Once he has lost interest in whatever I have managed to find to keep him occupied, he can be extremely irritating. Turn your back for one minute and he will be running riots around the house.

So instead, I do my best to prevent that. After all, the least thing I want to do is to get my Mum, Lucina, all stressed out. I can't exactly say that it will be good for her condition at the moment. If anything, it will most likely make everything so much worse- If that is even possible. At the moment, it doesn't seem very logical.

Our Dad sits in the front seat beside my Mum, holding her hand while he drove the car to our new location of which I will soon be able to call home… hopefully.

After an… unfortunate incident back where I used to call home, we have been forced to move away. In the process, I have left everything behind me. That includes mental items and physical, and my suitcase isn't even close to bursting open. I haven't even packed properly- just the necessities. As for everything else… the dump has become their new home.

Sadly, despite attempting to remain in the background picture, causing as little hassle as possible, the incident involved me, and no matter what I could have tried to do to keep that event from happening, I never would have been able to avoid it. My parents, an old friend and myself knew, and nobody else. I was rather keen to keep things that way. The move, the added stress, the phone calls, the tears…

It was All. My. Fault.

I am never going to be able to escape the clutches of that one bold thought.

Ever since that event has taken place, I have been bombarded with stress, causing me to have nightmares, and needing the constant presence of sleeping pills in my system before I even attempt to slip shut my eyes. The memory itself left behind permanent bruises, and therefore, I have banned myself from ever thinking, referring to or speaking about it ever again.

I am just going to have to forget, no matter how painful that may be. However, some things can simply not be forgotten.

None of my family have been bothered by the change- It is either that or they are doing a remarkable job of hiding their annoyance and disappointment. My Dad is barely here half the time anyway, so he has been wiped off the list entirely. He works far away- For most of my life, he has been away in Canada, running a boring, but well paid business.

It keeps him busy anyhow, and pays the bills, but I can't say that it still doesn't bother me. In some way, we are never fully complete without him at our sides. He is a vital element of our family. In a way, we are all like dominos- Knock down one, the rest all fall down.

Secondly, Mum is ill half the time and is never really able to notice his absence. At times she can be like a ghost- completely silent, ice cold and reflects the feeling of talking to a brick wall when she never replies. Adding to the confusion and despair, her lips sometimes move… but no words ever come out. It is like she is paralysed with fear- fear of death.

It is in rare moments like this that she actually seems fairly happy and free of the torture that always manages to cling onto her back, weighing her down, making her limbs worn and clumsy. The sight of the two of them, fingers entwined, grins on both of their faces, never fails to make me smile.

Ruth is too young to be highly affected by the change of scenery and friends and I am fairly sure that she will fit into a new school with no difficulty whatsoever. People her age are accepting so I am sure no issue will be caused in that department.

Life is always easy for her at that age- Sometimes it makes me worry about how it will be for her in the future, when she is old enough to understand the dangers of this world. Death was certainly one of them. I always fear losing the people that I love. It is a constant worry that has left its mark, deep inside my mind, refusing to be erased, just like the painful memories from before...

I lift my wrists up into the light from the sun which is beaming through the windows of the car, my skin already starting to tan slightly. Examining the scars which linger on my flesh, I am once again provoked with a reminder of those memories and events and the method that I have chosen to wipe them away.

After pulling my long sleeved shirt back over the scars, it is all I can do to simply sit and wait, trying not to fidget. I let my thoughts drift through my mind, daydreaming momentarily. It is not as if there is anything else left to do to keep me entertained. This was my best, but final option.

My Mum is the one who had proposed for a change, silently watching me go through unmanageable amounts of pain and agony. Eventually, she had given up on reality turning itself around automatically, making the situation close to breathable again. She also wants me as far away from him as possible. She is as equally disgusted as everyone else. After my school grades had dropped, that had been it for me. Now, I am just going to fit in elsewhere.

This is not going to be easy.

Mum looks at me in the rearview mirror with pity in her eyes.

'You feeling okay Wanda, sweetie?'

I nod, but say nothing. Times are hard- she understands that, and she doesn't pester me further. Even though she is sick, she still looks out for me when she can, just as I do for her. However, once she has taken a turn for the worst, there is nothing she can do to help anything, leaving me utterly alone and helpless.

When that time occurs, I am always grateful that I have at least one friend to go to. My old friends faces flash in my mind briefly, before they vanish. Another reminder- I had managed to gain friends back at home, but only few. That automatically decreases the possibility of me finding any here, where I am the stranger- the 'New Girl'.

Happy memories only seem to hurt me when I remember what I have lost- In this case, I will no longer be able to see my best friend, Andy, face to face daily like we always used to, since we have moved five hours away. Seeing the amounts of time that I feel like I need to talk to him just to stay sane, I have found alternatives.

I whip out my phone from my jeans pocket, tracing my thumb over the shattered screen before clicking the on button, bringing the screen to life. Even though it is smashed, it still works, and It is the only way to contact Andy in times of need. I scroll through my messages, smiling at the seven missed calls that he has sent me. He obviously cares.

Andy: Hey- miss you already. You set off yet?

Andy: Any luck with the new town? Let me know x

Andy: We're all thinking about you- Still best friends, right?

Andy: I hope you're doing okay…

I shake my head, dismissing his concerns even if he can't see me, and type back my own reply. His next message shoots back at me almost immediately, and I use this as an effective way to pass the time whilst erasing all the worry about this new trip. Whatever impression I give people now will remain in their heads for the rest of the school year. I only hope that it will be a good one. If not, there is nothing much that I am able to do about it right now.

Wanda: Hi. Sorry, been driving for a while and forgot to check my phone. We've set off, but still some way left to go. 5 hours away, remember?

Andy: Ah. Right. I remember. Seems like a long way.

Wanda: It is :(

Andy: Aww x Feel better soon, Wand. We all care about you.

Wanda: Thanks Andy, and I hope I will. What could go wrong…?

Andy: I know what you're thinking, and please be positive. At least you can get a break from him, yeah? He won't be there anymore.

This time, I don't reply. The memories are now threatening to jump right back out at me, drowning me in my own fear whilst forcing me to relive the dreaded events of my past. I don't have anything left to say to him. It always makes me go numb.

Andy: Wand, I'm sorry. Just get your grades back up, okay? Make some friends, have fun, get a boyfriend!

I snort.

Wanda: You wish. What makes you think the boys in this town will be any better?

Andy: You're right. We're all losers.

Wanda: Totally.

'Turn the Satnav off, Lucina', Dad's voice booms, excitement plain in his voice. 'We're nearly there!'

Mum nods, and Freedom stirs from his sleep, blinking innocently, rubbing at her eyes. While Mum batters the satnav against the car, frowning as the irritating voice blares from the speakers, refusing to switch itself off, I unbuckle Freedom's seat belt, sliding him out of his car seat and onto my lap, smoothing down his tangled hair.

I kiss his forehead. 'Did you hear that, Freedom? We're almost there!'

The false joy in my voice is very apparent, but thankfully, the five year old doesn't seem to notice. He is too immersed in his own fits of laughter and excitement.

'Daddy! Mummy!' He crows. 'We here! We here!'

I laugh lightly, attempting to keep the mood light, and to throw my Mum off shoulders. Gladly, she accepts my forced laugh and joins in with me, shaking her finger to and fro in front of Freedom's face.

'Not yet honey', she says. 'But nearly'.

While the bubble of chat and laughter increases in volume, I am left on the outside, hovering on the brink edge, deeply unsure of myself, still deciding whether I should enter or turn my back on them completely. Either way, none of them will notice me. Once they are happy, they try to avoid all depressing topics, such as myself.

I turn back to my phone.

Andy: Just so you know, I'm always here for you, no matter what.

Wanda: I know. Thanks Andy- I really appreciate it.

I sigh again before sending my next message.

Wanda: I'm never going to find a friend as good as you here.

Andy: Of course you will! In fact, you'll find better. I'm sure of it Wand. Just throw yourself out there and at least try to be normal.

Wanda: Impossible.

Andy: Rubbish. You can do it!

Wanda: I hope so.

Andy: You will. I promise.

Wanda: Pinky swear?

Andy: *sigh* Pinky swear.

Andy: Good luck on your journey Captain.

I smile. He has always loved those old movies. It is almost like routine now, and I can tell that he knows what I am going to say before I have even sent it.

Wanda: Forever and beyond.

Xxxxx

Before the car has even stopped, still in the process of rolling to a sudden halt, Freedom has removed his seatbelt, clicking open the door handle whilst pushing on the frame. He is calling out in joy, although I can't make out any single one of his words. It is almost like they have all merged together as one.

Since I am supposed to be the one to take care of him, I instantly lunge forwards, scraping my neck on my own seatbelt before wrapping my hand back around the handle, pulling the door shut. My neck goes hot as the sudden rush of blood gathers heat, and I began to feel the red liquid seep out through the broken skin. I don't even have to look down to know that it has stained my white top.

Since nobody has taken any notice of our sudden outburst, I bend down and unzip my backpack, removing a scarf from its contents before sealing it back up again, wrapping the scarf around my neck. Even if it is not the woolly kind, it is warm and absorbs the still- flowing blood from the cut. It is all I can do to hold Freedom in place, restraining him from making any reckless moves before the car is parked in the driveway and he is up and out again, tearing the door open again and leaping out, jumping up and down on the sidewalk.

In a matter of seconds, the roar of the engine dulls and the seats refrain from vibrating as the vehicle's power is shut off entirely. My heart thumping loudly in my chest, the roar of my blood rushing through my veins filling my ears, I slip shut my eyes, the world before me evaporating into the blackness from behind my eyelids.

As all of my senses become heightened and increase in sensitivity, I hear the click of the doors opening as my parents swung open their own doors, the click of my Mom's heels sounding through the open. I can also hear my dad's faint but heavy footsteps.

All I can think about is the dread and fear of what is yet to come, and many of the mistakes that I could so easily make in this new time without even blinking. I have also come face to face with the terms that no matter how many times I move, I will never properly fit in.

Last year, I had been lucky to make any friends at all, although I am guessing that I will make next to none in the days that will follow. I don't know how, but every time I think about friends, new neighbourhoods and new schools, I always find myself wanting to be sick.

Every single time, that uneasy feeling in my stomach will always return, as a result, my mind automatically accepting that there is something different about this town. The school is also larger; not meaning that I will gain upon a larger chance of making more friends, but that there will be more and more people willing to turn against me.

I have moved many times and it is always the same. There is always one event that nature will never fail to turn against me, flipping my whole life upside down in the process, forcing me to start anew, only to repeat the exact pattern over and over again. Nothing ever changes.

Eventually, I finally manage to summon the courage and strength to force open my eyes and haul my drowsy body up and out of my seat, my right hand reaching out for the door handle, pushing the door wide open while my left hand scoops my backpack onto my arm, hitching it upwards until it sits on my shoulder, dangling there from a single strap.

I wear it in this fashion not to follow the current 'trends' or 'fashions', nor to avoid being plucked out from the crowd, being named as a 'nerd', 'psycho' or anything of the sort. Whatever happens, those names always end up written plainly on a sticky back note which will always find its way onto my back. Since my left shoulder is 'injured', I am forced to wear my backpack on my right, the weight from heavy school books often crushing it in the process.

Soon enough, I am out of the car, finally standing up on two feet again, stretching out my legs whilst feeling incredibly worn and exhausted from the long drive and of lack of sleep. I have always suffered from car sickness, so sleep hadn't proved as a very sensible option at the time.

I only hope that it won't be long before I can drift off weightlessly towards the room that my family will have allocated as my own, granting my head the opportunity to rest itself upon a soft mattress and pillow. The very idea of sleep is bliss.

However, the idea of me drifting 'weightlessly' is obviously too much to hope for. My eyes are automatically drawn in the direction of the open boot, its contents bulging out. Some have been disturbed and five are balancing on the rim of the boot uncertainly, ready to drop to the ground like a stone, their insides smashing into millions of tiny pieces, glass shards raining over the ground.

I can picture the image in my mind so vividly, simply because that very happening has existed in my past. It had been my third move, and of course, I had been abandoned, left to unload the boxes from the car.

Unfortunately, the boxes had fallen and my dad hadn't been pleased about the remains of his picture frames, nor my mother about her precious ornaments, including her beloved 'cherub angels.'

I don't share her obsession on such an ornament, for comparing their lives to mine has always caused me to feel slightly down. They have turned to stone in such a perfect moment of their lives, framing that very event so that they can relive it over and over again. My life however, is not so perfect.

If every event and happening of my existence were to be listed down, I am certain that the bad would out rule the good.

Rushing forwards towards the boot, my feet dragging on the gravel, I spread out my arms, preventing any of the boxes from toppling over the edge, carefully shoving them backwards until they seemed stable and incapable of smashing.

It is now obvious that the events of the past are going to repeat themselves, yet again. Of course, I am left behind to unload while my family inspect the new house. I guess that it is what I deserve for being such an incapable child. That is what I have been told, anyhow. Not by family, of course. Just in general.

Planting my feet firmly on the gravel, ensuring that I will not topple over or lose my balance, I remove a box from the top of the pile, grunting as its weight tortures my arms, sending heavy waves of pain through my bones.

As stray beads of sweat run down my brow, I debate on setting this box aside, giving up entirely. Since I haven't the slightest idea of what might be inside the box, I decide against that matter, not wanting to risk crushing the insides when setting it down on the ground.

It is highly likely that I will drop it in the process, although I can already feel it slipping through my arms. Either way, it seems like I am going to lose possession of the box. I have proved that I am incapable of towing the box to the porch, and yet again, I am about to ruin everything.

My breaths escape from my chest in pants as the object in my arms seems to gain weight, fate deciding against me. I lean backwards, using the car as support as I slip, losing my footing, bracing myself for the impact of my body slamming against the ground…

Only the smack of my face against the solid gravel never comes. Instead, a strong pair of arms wrap around me, sending shivers down my spine. I close my eyes, biting the inside of my cheek. This has to be a dream. This cannot be real. Not now and not again. He can't be here. It is impossible.

The memory hits me like a punch in the gut, and I finally receive the impact that I have been expecting. The memory is short, and therefore, only lasts for a fraction of a second. It whizzes by me so fast, a constant reminder that I will always be alone.

His thick, muscled hand strikes my face, snapping my head to the side, my neck aching in protest. On my body, which is already covered from head to toe in bruises, a cut is forming, becoming one of many which have formed over time.

His hands or his knife blade has always been the one to cause them. Except for on my wrists and my shoulder. He has left those areas for me. It causes me much less pain. I am always careful. Never too deep, never too quick.

I am always slow and crafty. I would never have developed this habit if he had never forced me to. That is his mission of life; to inflict pain on me in every single way possible, using a variety of methods, both mentally and physically.

One way or another, it always hurt. He makes sure of that. Each scream and cry of pain is music to his ears. He enjoys it, and I hate him for it.

He also rips me apart through threats. If I do not follow through with this, he will not only make me suffer, but my family too. If so, my friends will also be in danger. I have few of them left as it is and I am not willing to throw them away. If anything, that will be wasteful, and as far as he is concerned, I am a waste of space. I do not deserve to live.

He steps forwards, throwing another kick into my side. His eyes are murderers and his large burly figure towers over me menacingly. Over time, he has battered me down. Therefore, I am weak and don't stand a single chance against him. He is just too strong.

Escape is no longer an option. He had eliminated that possibility many months ago. Each attempt of flight will always be severely punished. I deserve to feel pain. This is the only way.

'Now', he snarls, an evil smirk tugging on his lips. 'What have we got here?'

He is toying with his knife, passing it from one hand to another, stroking his fingers across the smooth cold metal. I only wish that his fingertips will catch on the blade, causing blood to flow out from his skin. I will do anything in order for him to feel the pain that he has caused me to feel over the many months that he had manipulated me and hurt me.

He taps his foot impatiently, and suddenly, tired of waiting for an answer, he lunges forwards and grabs my elbow, slicing his blade into my skin. I shrieked as he grinned, running his thumb over the fresh blood, drawing crimson patterns across my arm.

After he has savoured the moment of my agony, he pulls away, a deep frown now plastered onto his face. He is angry. It is always worse when he is in a bad mood. All of a sudden, I am terrified. No matter what I do, he will never stop.

His eyes narrow as he looks me up and down where I sit, my knees cradled into my chest, my arms wrapped securely around them. My short sleeved shirt is torn and my shorts are encrusted with mud. Aside from the fact that I am showing a great deal of leg and skin, I can't quite manage to understand what he is so upset about.

'What have you done?' He demands, his face contorted with rage.

I shake my head, confused.

He kicks my side again, my ribs throbbing as his shoe comes into contact with the bone.

'I said: What. Have. You. Done?' He repeats.

Tears roll down my face, and I wipe my hand across my cheek, the foundation that I have used to cover up my scars rubbing off, forming in clumps on the side of my hand.

'I don't know what you're talking about!' I whimper, my voice catching in my throat.

He stabs a finger at my hand, pointing at the foundation marks. When I still fail to understand, he kneels down and takes my hand, examining the marks there. I can hear him grunting, and before I can see it coming, his fist collides with my cheek, knocking me to the ground.

'What is that', he booms, my head ringing as his words flow into one ear and out the other, my brain not functioning properly.

I remain silent. He launches into speech again, his countless slaps and punches landing on my body. Not one of his attacks misses, each hit dead on centre of his chosen target, whether it is on my head, my rips, my stomach, my legs…

He never misses. He too, is also careful. He somehow manages to ensure that nobody will ever find out about this. For the rest of my life, he will continue to beat me. That fact has been engraved into my mind. He has made sure that I will never forget.

'What gives you the right to cover up these scars', he mutters, now trailing his hands up and down my body.

His touch is like poison. He makes me feel worthless just by looking at me. His words are venom. The poison is pulsing through me. His very presence is deadly.

He reaches into the pocket of my shorts, whipping out my phone. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he scrolls through my text messages. Luckily for him, I have forgotten to delete today's inbox. Unfortunately for me, I am going to have to pay the price.

He holds the screen in front of my face, motioning to a name on the screen. The words read Walter. He is my friend, and now, he is in danger. All. Because. Of. Me.

'Who is this?' He says, commanding for me to grant him with another answer to one of his many questions.

His penetrating eyes glare at me until I eventually give in, afraid of what might happen if I don't throw all of my effort into pleasing him.

'I don't know', I say, shrugging. 'Just a friend.'

I can see it in his eyes that he doesn't believe me. Did I not sound convincing enough?

His hands refrain from making any more contact with my skin, and this time, the shiver that is brought on is stirred by relief and pleasure at his absence. I hug my knees tighter into my chest, curling up into another ball on the hard wooden floorboards, glaring down at the floor, my eyes full of terror.

I cringe away from him as he throws my phone to the ground, crunching in beneath his foot, twisting his heel round until the screen has been scarred with cracks, glass spewing across the floor.

Instantaneously, not wasting a single second, he comes at me from behind, wrapping his arms around my waist. He leans down to whisper in my ear.

'You don't deserve it', he snarls. 'Any of it'.

The world goes black.

A sharp unexpected cry escapes from my lips as I begin to fall to the ground. The box is ripped away from my arms, and just as I am about to hit the ground, the arms catch me, tugging me back up again.

I automatically survey the ground, looking through my fingertips, my hands covering my face in terror, afraid of what the remains of the box are going to look like. Anyhow, to my surprise, no remains exist. The box has simply vanished.

Shakily, I whip round, expecting to see his face. The hatred will be plain on his face. He has hunted me down again and he has come to promise me that I will never escape him.

My eyes widen as I realise that that is not the case. Standing before me is a boy with black hair and blue eyes, and relatively close looking to somewhere around my age group. The arm that had caught me now dangles loosely at his side, and the other is holding the box, which I had dropped, with ease. He smiles, stretching out his palm for me to shake.

'Hi', he comments. 'My name is Ian. It's nice to finally meet you.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Hi! I hope you noticed that I have clumped chapter 1 and the prologue together, but this IS a new chapter. I have finished exams no and PLEASE review. It really helps! Thanks**

**Previously…**

My eyes widen as I realise that that is not the case. Standing before me is a boy with black hair and blue eyes, and relatively close looking to somewhere around my age group. The arm that had caught me now dangles loosely at his side, and the other is holding the box, which I had dropped, with ease. He smiles, stretching out his palm for me to shake.

'Hi', he comments. 'My name is Ian. It's nice to finally meet you.'

**Wanda POV **

For a moment, I loose myself in his blue eyes, staring at him with a baffled expression, my mouth drooping open. I can't imagine what I must look like to him, but in that very moment, I decide not to care. It is only seconds later that the world comes rushing back at me again; ready hit me at full speed.

Snapping out of whatever trance I have managed to get caught up in, I eye his hand before stretching out my own palm for him to shake. My hesitation seems to have confused him, but he still manages to smile warmly at me.

Once he is done shaking my hand, I let my arm drop loosely to my side and stand there, staring at his face… and all of a sudden, he bursts out laughing, clutching his side with one hand and bending over slightly.

I blush and look at the ground. I have blown it now. The one opportunity to make a friend has arrived and now, he already hates me! He is laughing at me like the crowd will once I begin school.

After a few moments, his laughter still doesn't let up. He really must think that I'm stupid. However, unluckily for him, I have decided not to put up with it anymore- All the laughter, the shoves, the slaps… I'm going to be strong.

'What?' I try to snap, but it just comes out as a grumble, the pain in my voice visible.

Although this does manage to stop him in his tracks and his laughter abruptly fades away. He looks up and places his hand on my shoulder. I am very aware of his touch but I somehow manage not to flinch. Once he has found out about me, he won't even want to look at me, never mind touch me.

'I'm sorry!' He gasps. 'Didn't mean it like that.'

I look up, bewildered. 'What do you mean? Then why did you laugh?'

'It's just- well, nobody has ever rally looked at me like that.'

I tap my foot impatiently, my arms crossed. 'Like what exactly?'

He bites his lip to keep himself from laughing. 'Like I'm a monster. You look like you're afraid of me.'

I say nothing.

'I promise, I don't bite', he jokes, but scratches his head when I don't laugh.

Eventually, he just shakes his head. 'I'm sorry. I guess I'm not the best at making friends. I didn't mean to bother y-'

'You're not?' I ask, cutting him off.

He runs a hand through his messy black hair and smiles. 'Definitely not.' He pauses. 'How about you?'

This time, I smile back. 'I think we're just about on the same page on that one.'

'How come?'

I pause. Since I have only just met him, I am not going to share with him anything personal. It is almost certain that he will turn against me, and then, my secrets will spread throughout the town. I can't bear to think of anything that could possibly be even more humiliating than this.

I choose my words carefully. 'I… I sometimes let the past get in my way. Everything I touch falls apart, and it's exactly the same with people, although it seems to have a more negative effect.'

I look at him out of the corner of my eye, expecting him to be deeply uninterested, twiddling his thumbs or something of the sort. However, to my surprise, his eyes are fixed on my face and he looks concerned. His forehead is creased and he look as though he is in deep thought, listening to each and every one of my words intently.

Since he isn't laughing, I decide to continue. 'Everyone I meet turns against me.' I shrug. 'It's just life, I guess.'

He clears his throat. 'Then your life must definitely suck.'

'Definitely.' At least he seems to agree with me. I just don't understand why he _still _isn't laughing at me. Everyone else I have ever told these same words to always have begun by now.

'If you ever need anything, I live just next door. I'm in most of the time anyway.'

I raise my eyebrows. 'How come? I mean, with parties, nights out and all…' I hesitate momentarily. '… a girlfriend?'

He chuckles. 'I'm not really that type of guy and I _definitely _don't have a girlfriend.'

He seems to be using that word a lot. Usually this would bother me, but in this case, it isn't so bad. It is probably just out of habit. Either that or he is messing with me.

'So if you're not _that _type of guy, then you must be the one who is ultimately known as the 'one night stand', I'm guessing, seeing as you _don't _have a girlfriend.'

This makes him laugh again. Honestly, I don't think it is that funny. In truth, I am actually being pretty serious. It is only logical.

'You're wrong.'

'Am I?'

'Believe me; it's hard to find a decent girl in this town. All they seem to care about these days is there bloody makeup and sex.'

I blush, attempting to recover quickly. Thankfully he doesn't notice. He is distracted by the beeping of his phone, although it is obviously just a text since the ringing sound is not constant. To my surprise, he doesn't answer it, or even read what it says. Instead, he is still looking at me, deeply engrossed into our current conversation.

'Seriously?' I muse.

He raises an eyebrow questioningly while I shake my head in disbelief. This, I have never seen before.

'You're not going to answer it?'

He leans in mischievously. 'Why? Does that bother you?'

I snort. 'Of course not. That's just unusual.'

'Back to you. I have never seen a girl off her phone for this long. It's actually quite impressive.'

'Don't have one', I announce, then quickly clap my hand over my mouth. This time, I have blown it for sure. He is bound to think that I'm a complete weirdo now.

He smirks. 'Impossible.'

Somehow, he is still talking to me. 'What do you mean? No it's not!'

'Yes it is. It goes beyond nature.'

I place my hands on my hips. 'Try me.'

When I say this, I have no idea that he would take me so seriously. Before I have time to register what he is about to do, his hand reaches my pockets. I jump backwards as he taps the side of my legs, searching in my jean pockets.

I know what he is about to do now. He is going to slap me. He will make me pay.

Instead, he holds up his hand in surrender, sighing. His face is not mocking, perplexed or disgusted. Unbelievably, it is understanding and kind.

I turn my back to him, ready to attempt flight while I still can, but he stops me in my tracks. 'Hey!' He yells over my shoulder.

I pause and flip around, still taking a few cautious steps backwards.

'I'm not that…'

The rest of his sentence blurs before my ears, making it impossible for me to hear. This enforces me to walk right back up to him again.

'What?' I whisper.

His face now looks worried. 'I'm not that type of guy either', he repeats. 'I won't do that to you or to anybody'. His voice is almost a whisper, like mine, and for once, he is being serious.

'Then what type of guy are you?' I ask.

He taps his nose with his finger. 'That, I'm afraid, is something that you're going to have to find out.'

He shifts his arms, and I finally realise that he is still holding the box that I had nearly dropped earlier. I reach out and take it from him and he tucks it into my arms, ensuring that I have a firm hold, not wanting to repeat what has just happened.

'Thanks.'

'Don't mention it', he says, and with a wave, sets off back to his house.

I am about halfway up the driveway when I receive a light tap on my shoulder. I turn around and grin as I see Ian, once again, standing right in front of me.

'I didn't catch your name.'

'Damn right you didn't.'

'C'mon', he pleads. 'It feels strange that you know mine when I don't even know yours.'

I stand there, my lips pressed into a tight line. If I tell him, then he might find out about me… he might make fun of me…

Despite the fear, I tell him anyway. 'Wanda', I sigh. 'It's Wanda.'

His face lights up. 'It's a pleasure to meet you, _Wanda_', he says before jogging off in the other direction.

He really is a mystery.

Xxxxx

The outside of the house looks relatively average, although once inside, I begin to realise that this house is nothing of the sort. This place is huge! It may be that we are still waiting for the delivery truck to bring our furniture and the house looks empty and bare without it, but I still think that this has been rather an impressive move.

Even so, before even entering, at the threshold of the doorway, I had made myself promise not to get too attached to the house or anybody I meet in the area. That will just make it too painful for when we will have to move again.

Anyhow, next time round, it will probably just be me doing all the moving since my family does seem to be growing noticeably sick of my 'behaviour.' They don't say it, but it is very apparent on their faces.

When I enter the living room, my parents and Freedom are sat on the carpet, although Freedom not so much. It looks as though they are having to pin him to the ground to stop him from leaping up again and destroying the house on one of his 'adventures' or 'missions.'

His legs and arms are sprawled out in such a way that it makes him look like a starfish. My Dad is tickling his stomach, making him roar out with laughter and my Mum is smiling at him sweetly while I hover in the doorway, towing in the last of our hand luggage- well, I should say _their _hand luggage.

Despite the sadness that I am not involved in their group, I am pleased that they all look happy. However, there is always that longing ache in my Mum's eyes when she looks at Dad, wishing that he would stay longer so that we could be a 'happy family again.' Being logical, I know that that is _never_ going to happen. Ever.

I stand there in the doorway, watching them play until Mum notices me standing there. She jumps slightly, feeling nervous with my flat eyes on her, allowing Freedom an escape from her hold. He whips out of her arms and begins to run around the room wildly, his arms spinning round in the air like windmills.

She looks at him sighing, before rising from her crouch and walking over to me. She hooks her thumb under my chin, lifting my face up to look at her. I don't meet her eyes.

'Wanda, honey. Don't look so sad.'

I try my best to smile, but probably fail miserably. The buzz that I had felt from talking to Ian vanishes, and a permanent frown has formed on my face. Even though I can't help it, no matter how hard I try, I attempt to look happier, seeing as being gloomy only makes Mum sad too. When she gets sad, she gets stressed.

When she gets stressed, she gets tired. When she gets tired, she has to take her pills. Everything pretty much goes downhill from there onwards, and she either ends up in bed all week or at the hospital with an oxygen mask on her face. It is never a pretty thing to witness.

She strokes my cheek. 'Can I get you anything? Are you feeling okay?'

Again with the questions. They are all pointless. Even if I say yes, you can get me something, or no, I'm not feeling okay, there is nothing that she can do to help me. Nobody can help me. I am stuck inside my own mental web of despair.

'I'm fine, Mum.' I mumble. 'I'll be fine.'

She smiles weakly, her tired eyes gleaming. 'Are you sure? If you want I could-'

'Can I pick my room?' I ask, attempting to distract her.

We have the same conversation every time we move. It always ends up leading us nowhere, and she leaves me behind to tie off the loose ends.

'I… er…'

Dad suddenly appears behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. 'We've already chosen ours. The guest room is on the right on the first floor. There's one room free on the top floor- just to the right. You'll be sure to find it.'

Out of four whole sentences, he still doesn't look at me. 'Thanks Dad', I mutter.

Great. It looks like I am going to be stuck up in the attic.

I climb the stairs two at a time and decide to inspect the first floor to begin with. I count off the rooms with my fingers.

The first finger: My parent's room. The owners of the house have left the double bed behind since it is impossible to fit through the door frame. The walls are bare and the windows have newspaper covering the glass, seeing as there are no curtains to provide them with privacy.

Finger two: Freedom's room. His toy aeroplane sits in the centre of the room, and he has scribbled over the floor in black ink. Stepping forwards, I realise that the black ink belongs to my favourite writing pen which lies in the corner of the room, the lid mangled and bent. The nib has been ripped from the pen entirely. I wipe away a tear and move on.

Finger Three: The bathroom. The shelves are empty apart from Mum's pills. The walls are stained slightly with wet patches where water has seeped into the walls. The sinks are fairly clean, but the floors are layered with dirt and dust.

Finger four: A storage cupboard. Plan, boring and small, just like any other storage cupboard.

Finger five: A door with the stairs leading up to my _new room. _I can't bear to go up yet. I want to finish inspecting the rest of the house like I have done before many times. It is a routine for me now.

The bedroom is always the last room that I look at, and I usually spend the rest of the day sulking in that very room, preparing for the worst. It is like 'save the best till last' but in reverse.

Finger six… finger six? This room is empty and a decent size for a bedroom. I don't understand why they have insisted that I go on the top floor when there is a perfectly decent room right here. Maybe they made a mistake? Could they possibly have miscounted?

I rush back down the stairs and shake my Mum's shoulder, panting as she spins round. She looks quite shocked at my appearance.

'What about the other room, Mum? I'm sure it's much nicer than the attic.'

'Sorry, pet', she whispers back to me. 'It's taken.'

'Taken? What do you mean?'

'Your father wants to use it as his office', she says, turning back to picking at her uneven nails.

'But he won't even be here!' I blurt out without thinking.

All eyes in the room turn to me. Even Freedom was quiet, his perplexed eyes fixed on my face. He doesn't understand and I don't blame him. It isn't often that I speak up above a whisper, never mind a half- shout.

As soon as I begin to feel more tears dribbling down my face, I turn my back and abruptly depart from the room, leaving my baffled family behind me. I run up to the attic and shut the door. All is quiet behind me and not one soul comes up to check on me.

Sniffing, I tuck my knees into my chest, my back against the wall and let it all out. All the tears, the pain, the horror… and sadly, another memory…

_I sit on the bed with James and Martha, a crimson coloured pen in my hand. My legs are crossed beneath me and my dress has become slightly creased. It is black velvet with shiny sequins that always fall off. _

_He _had chosen that dress for me, and all I remember thinking is that _he _wouldn't be happy. Nor would he be after Martha and James had doodled with their own pink and black pens all up my arms.

'_Draw me a flower, Wanda', Martha squeals. 'And make it good- I want to say that I got a tattoo.' _

_James rolls his eyes. When I finish drawing the flower, he colours it in and makes her growl. _

'_Get off! It's supposed to be pretty. Now it's just a black… a black…' _

'_Splodgey mess?' I offer with a giggle. _

_She snapps her fingers. 'Exactly. Super Splodgey.' _

_James pops the pen lid back on and shrugs. 'Don't blame me for trying. It's not my fault that Wanda's so good at art.' _

_I blush. Martha reaches out for my arm and begins to doodle. I reluctantly let her for a few moments, but when she doesn't stop, I snatch my arm away. She glares at me with an annoyed expression. _

'_Here we go again…' James mumbles. _

'_Wanda, don't you want to look sexy?' She wiggles her eyebrows. _

_I sigh. 'I know what you're going to say, but don't. I'm going out tonight and he won't like it.' _

_He won't just 'not like it.' He will be furious. I sometimes tend to forget this, just like I do just moments later. _

'_C'mon Wanda. Just have some fun!' _

'_Yeah, he won't care. It's only a date, right? Just wear a jacket or something.' _

_Martha giggles. 'He will __**Never **__notice.' _

_I sigh again, looking at both of their puppy-dog eyes. I can't help it. I give in. _

Although hours later, I had only just begun that Martha and James may have gotten a little carried away and had forgotten their promise to tone it down and keep it minimized and simple. When _he _had come to pick me up, my earlier and wiser assumptions had been correct. He was more than unhappy to see that his girlfriend had appeared with pen all over her face and arms.

_I step forwards to hug him like he had insisted that I do every time we meet. He takes me in his rough cold arms and squeezes me slightly. The embrace never lasts long but this one in particular seems to be noticeably shorter than the rest. _

_Something is wrong- I can sense it. I just don't understand what that something could be. _

_His whole body suddenly goes stiff and he pulls me away from him, holding me at arm's length. His hold on me begins to hurt, but I don't complain. I silently stand there as his nails dig into my skin. _

_His eyes are scanning my face and arms with a horrified glint. I curse under my breath as I realise that I have forgotten to bring my jacket. _

'_What the hell is this?' He growls. _

_I try not to panic. 'It's just pen', I soothe him. 'It was fun…' _

_He is just standing there, his nails still breaking the surface of my skin. I bite my lip as I watch the red liquid lap over his fingers and run down my arms. _

'… _do you like it?' _

_He scowls. Suddenly, he began to bend over, and ripped the hem of my dress, revealing the pen marks trailing all the way up my legs. _

_In that moment, I recall Martha saying, 'He won't see them here. Just have some fun!' _

_Of course, Martha was wrong, once again. The pair of them continuously underestimated his ability of getting angry. _

_Before I can attempt to reassure him that it is nothing, he grabs hold of my hair and begins walking, dragging me along with him. His pace is too fast for my short legs to keep up with, and I find myself stumbling along the sidewalk, a wave of panic rolling over me. _

_He swings open the restroom door and drags me in; locking the door behind him once he has checked that there is nobody inside. The stench of alcohol tells me that we must be in some sort of pub, but unfortunately, it is highly unpopulated. Nobody will hear me scream… _

_He pulls me along to the sinks, but I refuse to go any further, planting my heels into the cracks in the floor. 'Stop!' I sob. 'You're hurting me!' _

_He spits on the floor, and slaps me straight across the cheek, the blow sending me falling to the ground. He lets me lie there on the cold, hard tile for a few moments, towering above me and listening to my whimpers. _

_Moments later, he is off again, hauling me up and planting me down in front of the sinks. _

'_What are you-' _

_He bangs his hand into the glass mirror, pointing at my reflection. The glass shatters beneath his fist and I split into a million pieces, dropping to the ground like fresh tears. _

'_Do I like it?' He roars. 'Just look at yourself!' _

_He grips the back of my neck and points my head down in the direction of the floor, forcing me to look at my tear streaked face in the broken shards of glass, mascara running down my cheeks. _

_He kicks me forwards in rage. 'Wash it off', he orders. _

_I obey, and obediently turn on the taps with shaky hands, rubbing the water onto my skin. I pinch hard into my flesh, but no matter how hard I wash my arms, the ink fails to leave my pale skin. _

'_It won't come off… I…' _

'_Wash. It. Off.' _

_I put my head in my hands. 'But It won't come off', I sob. _

_Being in the reckless state that I am in at this very moment, I don't see him come at me for the last time. He grabs my skull and bangs it against the edge of the sinks. My helpless figure tumbles to the ground and the rusty old tiles are given a fresh new coat with my blood._

_All I hear is his shouts. All I taste is my blood. All I smell is his same, musty scent. All I feel is pain and all I see is blackness. _

The next day, I had woken up in the hospital. He hadn't brought me there-m of course he hadn't! My best guess at the time had been that one of the bar attendants had needed a bathroom break and he had been forced to co-operate. He had been a brilliant actress.

None of my family had been there, but he was, for a limited amount of time. He had remained as a warning as to not open my mouth. I had known what would have happened if I ever did.

The doctors had reported that I had collapsed under the influence of alcohol. He had been there to 'rescue me' and that I would be fine. I had a fractured skull, a broken arm and a sprained ankle but I also had nothing that couldn't be fixed.

He had warned me shortly after that wherever I hid, he would always find me- wherever I went, he would follow me and that whenever I ran, he would always catch me.

He taught me that there were penalties in life and that my life would be a living hell.

I had believed him. The worst thing is that to this day, I still do. He will always come back for me.


End file.
